


Blue

by demonessryu



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23125411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonessryu/pseuds/demonessryu
Summary: The small bedstead preserved many of Brian’s memories.
Relationships: Brian May/Chrissie Mullen, Brian May/Roger Taylor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to post the last chapter of Let Me Kiss You this week but I’m doing something else and don’t really have the time for 3k words to edit. Plus a sudden crisis of faith in myself and my writing skill don’t help. So, here’s something short and not sweet while I get my head and life sorted out enough to edit the final chapter properly.

Memories could be preserved in many ways. Personally, Brian preferred the medium of photography, bursts of captured moments to be viewed later as still images. He had his fair share of writings, too, of episodes in his life and sometimes other people’s, immortalized as songs and letters. Even the formless preservation could be enjoyable, sitting down with loved ones and talking about days long gone and passing time. He had never considered, however, that memory could be preserved in a boring old building that was only livable due to the desperation of some. Yet, now as Brian stood at the feet of a small bed and studied blue walls around him in silence, he was enveloped by countless memories. Many hours had been spent looking at these walls, many memories made within them. The feelings evoked within him as he stood in the center of the bedstead were mixed and confused, a tangle of a thousand threads impossible to unravel. Brian blinked rapidly. He felt a little overwhelmed, a little breathless, a little like smiling, a little like crying.

Brian’s eyes fell to the tiny kitchen area in the corner. There was hardly enough space there to cook, but many cups of tea had been made there. The sound of boiling water and the scent of tea had accompanied hundreds of conversations. The corner had witnessed too many subtle dances to keep physical distance as if they could’ve stopped the inescapable tide of something stronger than both of them combined. There, hidden from the rest of the world, Brian’s longing hands had briefly ruffled through soft hair, tightly clenched fists had been placed on shoulders and back in tentative hugs, arms and sides and legs had brushed against another’s as boundaries were tested and then stretched to accommodate ever-growing wanting. The cramped space had imprisoned with invisible chains called ingrained norms and regulations. It had freed with privacy while they figured out how two people could keep a secret. (“What kind of measurement is one and three seventh sugar? It’s either one or one and a half!” “One and three seventh!”)

Brian chuckled quietly now at the thought of those early days of torturous uncertainty, of not knowing where one stood while knowing exactly what one’s hearts wanted. He smiled at the thought of lazy days of many pots of tea and delightful conversations carefully crafted to avoid the heart of their changing relationship. It was always very lovely here in the bedstead, especially when it rained and the small space was enveloped by the steady whisper of water hissing on their way to the earth and the comfortable chill of life sustained – and there was no shortage of rain and general gloomy weathers in this part of the world. It did raise a little problem about keeping warm, but it had given the perfect excuse to sidle close together, pressing side against side under the flimsy pretext of sharing warmth, whispering close enough for lips to almost brush against ears to be better heard, determinedly ignoring how they kept resting their hands close to each other’s. (“It’s freezing in here! How do you live like this?” “Beer, cigarette, and girls.”)

On one wall, there was a window that let in some sunlight and warmth in the day. It didn’t have the best view, overlooking a grim neighboring building rather than spectacular scenery, but it served its purposes. Brian approached it, crossing a sea of boxes of lives’ memories and possessions, and looked out, as if he would see a different view than what he had seen hundreds of times before. There, basking in light and warmth, he had often lost himself in his thick textbooks and seemingly endless study. It was nice to work under the sun, nice to feel so fulfilled and alive. He didn’t always remember, sometimes too caught up in thoughts that darkened his mind, to remember he still had a pulse. But, the sun helped him remember and so did the leg or arm touching his numb skin, reminding him to continue living, giving him reason to go on and try to reach his (their) dreams. (“Do you really have to study here?” “Do you really have to _sunbathe_ here?”)

On the corner near the window, where there now was only pale blue walls, there used to be a small wardrobe. It should be enough to contain all the clothes a student could have, but not if said student was also an aspiring rock star. Many arguments had been had there, raised voices and clothes thrown at each other. But, there had also been quiet moments of watching, of admiring, of teasing glimpses of skin, of eyes not averting fast enough or at all. Brian couldn’t remember every instance, but just the thought of it, of quietly looking and adoring, stirred a desire that was more than lust, a strong pull of want for more than a physical connection, for something he had thought only existed in fantasy but he had surprisingly found in reality. (“Not everyone looks as good as you.” “I’m not so blind that I think you’re not good looking – if you’d just get rid of that ugly jumper!”)

Sometimes, when he managed to ignore the less-understanding reality, Brian wondered why they had bothered with denying themselves. A glimpse of the small bed rouse a private memory, a small bright light in the midst of darker memories he never seemed to be able to stop collecting. It had been neither romantic nor perfect, it had been clumsy and uncoordinated, but it had been them. It had been a culmination of years of yearning, of trying to keep socially-appropriate distance, of pretending they were nothing more than friends. The times that came after that were better, easier, once they had learnt the best ways to draw forth little blissful sighs and moans, muffled curses and groans. Those still weren’t perfect, but Brian would gladly trade perfection for golden hair tangled in his fingers, tiny bruises on pale skin where callused fingers had dug in, swollen red lips after lengthy desperate kisses, hooded blue eyes that shone not with anger but with affection and desire. (“Are you sure about this?” “If you stop, I’ll throw you out of the window.”)

When Brian first came to the bedstead, the small table by the bed had been covered by a well-used ashtray, random books of great figures from long-gone past, and a notebook full of lyrics lovingly written and crossed out. At some point, however, thick books on planets and stars and the laws that governed them, an old camera, and a stack of loose papers containing songs no one else had heard except for them had made a home amongst those items, pushed to the side but always carefully kept away from beer stains and cigarette ashes. There was no room for a drum kit, but the wooden table and metal bedframe had contributed to the writing of songs made on the Red Special. Brian had forgotten the guitar there once, tucked in a corner when he hurried, very late, to his class. He hadn’t thought twice about it, knowing it was safe, knowing it was where it belonged. Brian hadn’t really understood what it meant then – it had taken him a while longer to fully comprehend – but he had known (had always known) that it had been home. (“Oh, I thought I’d lost those books. Did I put it there?” “Yes, you tried to turn them into my new ashtray.”)

Brian had begun to understand one grim Monday, when after a few days of slow withdrawal followed by a weekend of barely leaving his bed, he went to the small bedstead and found it the color of the day. What used to be plain white walls and ceiling had been painted over in the shade of a clear summer sky. He hadn’t understood it at first, thinking it another example of the familiar eccentric streak. But, it hadn’t been. It had all been done for him. Now, Brian ran his hand over smooth walls. Surrounded by the painted summer day Brian had often slowly remembered how to feel, how to breathe, how to want to live. The artificial sky was never meant to be a quick fix, but it always helped. Brian thought fondly of those silent days, of solid but soft warmth supporting him, of fingers sliding through his hair and quiet reminders to take care of himself, of the sound of pages turning until darkness fell and the narrow bed reminded him again that he was not alone. (“I’m actually a bit glad you couldn’t find dark blue paint. Why would you want it to be so dark?” “I just thought then you could paint your stars and zodiacal lights.”)

Brian’s memories tended to be scattered all over the place, intercepted by wonders of the space, unexpected words and musical notes in his mind that demanded to be made into proper songs, and unfortunately familiar bouts of numbness and painful hopelessness. However, one moment he remembered—would _always_ remember—with crystal clarity. He could see it now as he stood in the center of the tiny bedstead, surrounded by secret memories. It had been one near perfect summer day, there in the direct path of the warm sunlight, surrounded by fancy clothes that both drew attention and concealed, flanked by a bottle of slowly diminishing beer and a cigarette stick steadily burning, facing a white sheet of paper scrawled with musical notes and pretty words about choices and unknown roads to be taken. Roger had sat there on the floor, in the middle of a circle of items that brought magic to the stage, paradoxically appearing a perfectly ordinary young man with the glitz and glam removed as there had been no one to impress. He had been glowing, hair golden, fair skin just slightly kissed by the sun, beautiful voice drifting and filling the room, soft well-worn clothes resting comfortably on slight frame, fingers dancing gracefully over strings of the Red Special cradled gently and carefully in his strong hands to draw forth the sweetest sounds. Brian had realized it then, not in a sudden rush of awareness of feelings, but a slowly settling sense of contentment. It had always been there, had always been between them, waiting to be named. It was puzzle pieces clicking into place. It was coming home after a long arduous day. It was the ever reliable rising of the sun after bitter dark night. He had grasped it then in his hands, what he hadn’t knowingly sought but nevertheless found, and kept it safe and close to his heart where he knew for sure it would always remain to the day he died. (“Why are you looking at me like that?” “I love you.”)

“Brian?”

“Here!”

Footsteps approached, followed by the sound of a heavy box being set down. Only a moment later, an arm circled his waist. Brian put his arm around Crissy’s shoulders and kissed the top of her head. Holding each other, they stood and surveyed their unmade new home.

“It’s very nice of Roger to pass his bedstead down to us,” Crissy said not for the first time, still shocked by the unexpected generosity although it had been weeks since Roger gave the bedstead to them.

Brian smiled. They were no longer students, but they were far from rich. Passing down a comfortable (although tiny) bedstead was almost unheard of, but Roger had always been quietly charitable. “He’s just looking to get rid of it because he’s found a better place,” he joked, referring to all the good friends and girls who had gladly offered their sofas and beds to Roger.

Crissy laughed and shook her head in amusement. “Well, we both know how he is. Still, it’s very kind of him!” She leaned closer to him when he hummed in agreement. “We should thank him – yes, _again_. When are you meeting him?”

“Tonight, actually. We’re going to a pub.”

“Well, enjoy yourselves. And try not to fight with him!”

Brian squeezed Crissy as he looked at the spot where he had found his one true love. He carefully stored the steadily burning star safe in his heart to be seen and felt only by himself and the one he shared it with. “You know I can’t promise that, but I’ll try.” He couldn’t wait to see Roger.

(“I love you, too.”)

**Author's Note:**

> You can probably tell that at some points I forgot how to English. In Queen 3-D, Brian mentions Roger gave him and Crissy his old bedstead and that Roger painted the walls and ceiling blue by himself. It was so very nice of him but this being me means that angsty fic happens. I wish I could sincerely say I’m sorry. Although, I _am_ sorry for all the cheating fics. It’s a theme that has never come up in my previous fandoms, so I’m quite curious to explore it. According to my notes I’m quite done exploring, though, so back to non-cheating stuff I go (for now)!
> 
> For now I can still be found on [tumblr](http://demonessryu.tumblr.com/) where my fanworks never show up on the proper tag(s).


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